


The Tutor and Feeder of His Riots

by marybarrymore



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Gen, Humphrey of Gloucester believed everything happened was the fault of others, Teenage Rebellion, good uncle bad uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marybarrymore/pseuds/marybarrymore
Summary: Humphrey Duke of Gloucester was on his way to attend Parliament held at Bury St. Edmunds. His mind wandered on his journey.
Relationships: Henry V of England & Humphrey of Lancaster Duke of Gloucester, Henry VI of England & Humphrey of Lancaster Duke of Gloucester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The year is 1447.  
> This work is from the point of view of Duke Humphrey. In other words, it is bias and self-glorifying and is not the author's own point of view.

I was watching my valet wrestle with my linen shirt when the page called through the door, "The Duke of York wishes to speak to your Highness". I didn't even have my pants on so simply yelled back in a like manner and bid him tell the Duke I'd be right there.

That was half true. I would be there to greet him, but not ‘right there’. By the time I'd put on my linen shirt and tights and crackows, my houppelande and two wrist belts, combed my hair and curled my beard and spritzed myself, the gentle duke waiting downstairs will probably start to bang his head. He never was very patient. The Greenwich Palace was in a chaos, and the shuffling footsteps of the servants sounded continuously outside the door. I remembered something else and bellowed again before the kid outside the door ran off to deliver the message, telling him to tell Chamberlain to find my collar.

When I had finished decorating myself and finally descended the stairs, I was surprised to find that York had neither been impatient nor pulled his hair, but was sitting at my table, enjoying my breakfast, with half an apple in his mouth and a piece of bread in his hand. A fit of anger possessed me: How dare he ate my breakfast ere I break my own fast.

"My lord!" He caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye and bounced up as if the stool was on fire, and the bread in his hand fell to the floor. Old Galahad had been lying under the table waiting to be fed, and when he saw something fall, lifted his head and sniffed impassively, then turned his head in disgust. York greeted me heartily, seeing me staring at him with a seeming smile helped him realize that he still had half an apple in his mouth. He took it out and tossed it to old Galahad.

I saw my old dog roll his eyes at him.

"Something wrong?" I asked in good-humor, seating myself at the table to finish the rest of my breakfast, gesturing for him to sit down as well, "It's been long since I've seen you in Greenwich Palace. How are Cecily and the children?"

York's face reddened visibly. But I didn't mean to blame him. After all, I was the one who excused myself with sickness and left the court, and I was the one who shut the door of Greenwich behind me and chose to live as a recluse. Then there was that scandal, and it was only too natural for all those with a sound mind to avert Greenwich Palace.

"The kids are fine," said York, pulling a handful of beard, "and Cecily's fine. Did I mention that? She's with child again!"

"Again!" I pulled out a fake smile, "Oh, Richard, I've lost count of the number of children you've had! Cecily is truly Aunt Joan's daughter! You'll hopefully be on par with your father-in-law and beget a dozen boys and a dozen girls!"

York laughed; his ears redden. I wore a smile on my face, but secretly feeling far from glad.

"Father?"

I turned towards the door. Arthur, standing in the doorway, saw me waving to him and strode forward. I had been a womanizer all my life but managed to beget only one illegitimate son and one daughter. Whereas Burgundy, who had a reputation for amorousness as great as mine, fathered nearly fifty. But I cared not. Arthur was a handsome young man, his almond-shaped eyes the only part of him resembling his mother. I would look at him and remembered myself as I had been in the prime of my life - another joke, for who would have thought that the old Duke of Gloucester, such a sick and battered invalid, could have been the fairest prince in all England?

As Arthur approached, I could see that he was holding a dark blue velvet cushion in his hand, and on it laid an old silver collar.

"Milord asked Chamberlain to find a collar, and he asked me for help," he explained with a smile on his face when met my puzzled gaze, "Is this the one milord desires?"

I leaned closer to look at it carefully, before realizing that the dusky chain was indeed the same silver collar that I had once treasured, and nodded. Arthur seemed relieved.

"Then I'll have it polished. But-" he hesitated for a second, and the smile in his eyes faded, "Father, didn’t you throw this collar through the window when you came back from Westminster some years before? I thought you even swore never to wear it again. What occurred to you to have Chamberlain find it out?"

I coughed and glanced at York, "I changed my mind. Besides, receiving the livery collar from the King himself is an honor that all men seek, so how can I go to the King's Parliament without wearing the King's collar?" ‘Tis true that I threw it away in a fit of rage and swore never to wear it again, only because I’d thought myself no longer in need to attend parliament after I had gotten such a round rebuke from the king in front of the whole court at Westminster. Though I regretted it almost the instant when the collar flew through the window, and ran downstairs looking in the garden for it for a long time. In the end, I did not throw it away, but put it in a box and shelved it – I knew not where.

My brother had left me almost nothing. I would have despised myself had I thrown away the collar he himself had put around my neck.

I drew my attention back to York and found him staring in the direction of Arthur, looking so worried that I couldn't help but pat him on the shoulder. He turned to me in a start.

"What are you staring at?" I laughed, York has been my page as a child, and even his family title of the Duke of York was granted him through my mediation. The two of us are naturally closer than the others, with less ceremonial formality between us, "Did my son charm you with his look?"

He looked perturbed, his forehead wrinkled, "My lord, must you go? I-"

"My mind is set. I am going," I interrupted him, "That boy has gone too far this time, I've got to do something to stop him. The only way to do that is to make a big deal out of it and command the Parliament’s interference. I know, I know," I saw him open his mouth and lifted my voice impatiently, "I know what you're trying to say, I couldn't change his mind that year, and now that he's more assured of himself and with my reputation tarnished, I may not stop him this time either. But Richard, if I stand idly by and do nothing, watching him ruin everything that my brothers had fought for. How…how can I face Harry when I…"

York frowned, as if unconvinced, "But you know Beaufort and Suffolk have always held a grudge against you. Should they take this opportunity to turn on you-"

"When have they ever gotten their way all these years?" I stood up and patted him on the shoulder, "Don't you worry. I am the brother of the king that was, and they wouldn’t dare to turn on a brother of Harry the Fifth. The worst thing I’d get would be the king’s displeasure," I sneered, "as if he had ever been pleased with me."

It's sad. Sometimes I could not believe that the young king who treated me so coldly with displeasure written all over his face, was the same gentle boy who’d sat on my lap and pulled my sleeve, pestering me to tell him stories.

York was at last persuaded but departed with an anxious look as if the end of the world was on the horizon, repeatedly biding me to be on guard, even proposed that we should set out together for Bury St. Edmunds.

"You would not like that," I poked him on the head, "I am out of favor with the king, shunned by the court, and you would bid me company? Surely you don't want to make an enemy of half the court because of me. It's almost time for Edward to settle, and you must be on good terms with the king’s favorites to grant your son a profitable marriage. Besides, I won’t leave for Bury today, I have to go to Westminster first."

York looked at me as if I was out of my mind, "What are you going to Westminster for? The King is at Bury, the court accompanying him, and now Westminster is empty save for a few clerks who remain."

"I have things to do in Westminster," I said casually, not wanting to explain too much to him, "Go, or my good cousin Cecily will blame me for separating her and her loving husband."

I listened to the sound of his horse's hooves drifting out of the gate of Greenwich Palace. My wagons were packed, and the palace fell into a sudden silence. It was a silence that I had become familiar with over the years. I was not a man of a quiet nature, being alone frightened me. I preferred to be in Harry's palace, talking, gambling, laughing, and drinking wine from the hands of flirting girls. When I had gotten a little tipsy, I would stumble off to find the master of the palace, who, not liking the idea of wasting time on getting drunk, would sneak upstairs into his study to polish his sword, study his map, or write his memorandums. When I pushed open his door and burst into his study with a Bordeaux still in my hand, I always saw him smiling up at me and walking around our father’s desk, reaching his hand out at me.

"Humphrey's drunk again," Harry would scold me with a faint smile. He was half a head taller than me and I could lay my head on his shoulder comfortably, "How can I trust you with anything when you can't even control yourself over a drink? "

The loneliness swept over me, drowning Harry's shadow. The hall was silent. I reached up to cover my face, feeling my hands tremble slightly in the darkness.

How am I supposed to face Harry?


	2. Chapter 2

I was the last of Henry of Lancaster’s sons, of whom the late king Henry the Fifth was first.

Our father had not yet usurped the throne at our births, and was wandering the world under the name of "Henry of Lancaster, Earl of Derby". He got his title of the Earl of Derby from our maternal grandfather, and with his father our grandfather tending to his demesne, was never in short of money. Since he was never on good terms with the king's court, he spent most of his years abroad, in Milan, Constantinople, and the Holy City, and only when his money was running out did he think of writing home to his father to ask for more.

Some of the grizzled-hair elders on the continent may still remember the gallant Henry of Lancaster, the handsome young knight, with shining armour and glittering spears, deeming himself honorably in the tournament at Saint Inglevert. But I was not one of them. Father was still in the East when I was born - Harry had let slip once, saying that father mayhap was making his Turkish slave conceive our half-brother when I was born. I was very young, and when he had said this, he seemed to realize that such talk ill-becomes a babe. When I looked up at him, I heard him let out a sigh and was prudent enough to let the matter sleep. When father returned from the Hold Land, he brought back a child, a boy with a foreign look, and thrust him into our little household. Harry didn't like him. Looking back, I thought that Harry's unfounded resentment of the boy was probably because his very existence was proof of father's infidelity to mother. Father did not care much for him, and it seemed to me that the boy was only the byproduct of a one-night stand and that he had brought him back to England out of duty rather than out of any affection for him or his mother. The boy was thrown into a convent as soon as he was out of childhood and perished before he grew to manhood. All of Henry IV’s children perished in their prime, even the illegitimate son whom everyone had forgotten was no exception.

I was two when he finally returned to England after an extremely lengthy journey. The first time he came home he bent down and held out his hand to me with a big smile, and my nurse lifted me to carry me out to him.

"And you screamed and slipped out of her hands," Thomas recalled this to me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "It's rare to see father's face goes so dark."

But probably he got his dark face from the sunshine of Italy. According to Thomas, as soon as I saw the nurse about to hand me over, I made a shriek, slipped to the floor and flung my two short legs at my mother and brothers before anyone could react, hanging onto Harry like an octopus and nearly tackling him down, rubbing my tears onto his brand new pourpoint while wailing in his ear.

"Harry! Help! The Saracen wants to eat me!"

My parents were but a pair of shadows in the fuzzy memories of my early childhood. My clearest memory was of Harry in the Great Hall of Kenilworth, the sun beating down on his back and face through the high windows. Harry kneeling on the stone floor and smiling brightly, his arms outstretched at me, as I pushed away from the nurse's supporting hand and stumbled towards his figure bathed in the sunlight, stretching out to reach his fingertips, the sole light in my eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

York was right. Westminster was silent, almost as dead, except for the silent clerks in black wandering through corridors silently. I did not find the man I was looking for, but still, I got what I wanted. The clerks are the most suitable spies, you see them usually silent, hidden in the corner, with only a quill waving ceaselessly on the parchment, but they see and hear everything, all the documents need to go through them, all the court's conspiracy cannot escape their ears. This is what Harry had taught me - the spies he had placed in the palaces of France and Scotland were unassuming clerks. A few of the old ones in Westminster were also my men, who, though not entirely in tune with the young king's movements, were occasionally able to supply me with the information I needed.

I left Westminster Palace from King Richard's hall, the statue of a white hart on the handrail gawked at me with unspoken compassion and mockery. The day Harry's queen celebrated her coronation here, my eyes had swept through the blushing cheeks of the girl and pinned them to the tapestry that had been lifted a crack behind the statue. King Richard’s hart, which stood here that day, had looked at me in the same way.

"Harry," I whispered, sitting on the ground with my back against the icy stone wall, "Save me, save us."

The silence in Westminster Abbey was almost unbearable. The chants scattered into a whimper by the wind, no bells tolled, no chimes sung, no birds chattered, just my own voice wavering between the stone walls and the dome. The white candle that had burned for two decades shrank and trembled, the terrible shadow I cast on the stone wall trembled with it.

I suddenly felt cold, a chill rising from the marble floor beneath me, through my spine and spreading throughout my body. I wrapped the sable-lined houppelande a little tighter, the gilt buttons pressing against my hands. But it was no use, I was still cold, chilled. My bones felt as if they'd been brushed in ice water, chilled to the bone and aching, and the only source of heat around me were four white candles. I exhaled a breath of fog and pulled out an ugly smile, counting the absurd things the young king had done over the past two years bit by bit to the thin air.

"...and that's not all, he's now going to surrender Anjou and Maine for the sake of a woman. The soldiers refused to be humiliated thus and refused to surrender, so he had their supplies cut off and watched indifferently as they were besieged and betrayed." I closed my eyes and leaned back against the stone behind me, the chill running rampant through my body, my teeth chattering from the cold, tears sliding uncontrollably from the corners of my eyes into my ears. I had rarely been in such a mess. It was as if I was back to that winter day over twenty years ago, when I wept in the snow, when the coldness surrounded me gently and seeped into my limbs. "Harry. If you're really in heaven looking down on us, why do you just watch as he turned everything against you, betraying everything we've fought for. Why can't you save England?" I hadn't lost my temper like this for a long time, not even the day when I learned that Eleanor and I were ruined. My shadow wavered gently on the wall, and rustling noises sounded in the silence: it was snowing.

"Harry, Harry," I sat up on my knees, which ached like being bitten by a thousand bugs, my fists on the floor, "Why can’t you save me? Why can't you help me?"

The snow outside grew heavier, the light of the white candles faint, the world in my eyes hazy. I was on my knees, my forehead resting on the lead plate as if to cry out all the grievances I had suffered over the years, just like when I was young, no matter whom I'd fought with, I would go to Harry and ask him to settle the matter. It's just that Harry would not sigh and scold me and settle everything for me. I had my hands on the tomb and felt myself like the pagan Jews weeping over the fall of the temple of Salomon. The years of suffering passing through my mind: the wiles of Burgundy; the suspicions of the young king; the defeat of our army; the impoverishment of the treasury; the sickness of myself; the deaths of our friends; the treachery of Beaufort, Suffolk, and the like; the ridicule of the French; my own ruin and Eleanor's captivity.

After all these years, I thought I had got used to a life without Harry, and yet I still thought of him again and again, uncontrollably. If Harry had been here, I would not have to endure all this. This thought had been a continuous reminder of what I had lost, and now it was like a hammer smashing my remaining sanity. But Harry was sleeping within the chest and without my reach, and would never again reach out and ruffle my hair. I was almost mad when the cortege returned to England, and, getting myself drunk, broke into St. Paul's with my sword that night. I vaguely remember the panicked retreat of the chanting monks, the half-hearted attempts of the soldiers to stop me and my pushing them away. I remember myself madly pried the damned nails, someone wrapping his arms around my waist and snatching my sword out of my hand, and me being thrown heavily to the ground and looking up, saw the Archbishop of Canterbury's aged face burning with fury. The sacred crosier fell on me and beat me to the ground.

"My Lord of Gloucester, that's your brother's hearse!"

I didn’t remember much of what happened after that. I woke up the next day aching all over, not sure if it was the aftermath of a hangover or an attack by the sacred crosier. The only thing I remember was that I wandered into Jacqueline's room. She hadn't gone to bed, her long, thick chestnut hair spreading on her chest. When she saw me, she put down her embroidery, raised her eyes, and watched as I threw myself at her feet and wailed.

"Jacqueline," I said, "what shall I do? Harry forsook me."

Jacqueline stroked my back as gently as she would soothe a crying child and said it does not matter, Jacqueline is here, Jacqueline won't forsake you. The same words were said to me later by many more women, Jacqueline, Rosalind, Eleanor...but Eleanor wept alone behind the high walls on the Isle of Mann, and I woke up in the middle of the night in a stone-cold bed, alone and left only with the chilling cold.

"I'm going to see him," I finally stopped sobbing and wiped my face haphazardly, pulling out a false smile, "I've failed you by failing to stop him freeing Orleans, and as for Maine and Anjou, I can't let him behave like this even if I have to risk my own life. Maine I have fought for under your banner, and in no wise shall I let him give it away to Charles like this."

Maine had surrendered to Harry upon the sight of the banner of St. George, without the King set out to lay siege himself. But now it had come to this.

I thought Harry could not have been in heaven watching us. Should he see such a sight, he would have descended and pulled that useless king from his throne. True, that useless young brat was his son. But Harry didn't care such things when he was dissatisfied with the chaos in the court and tried to persuade father to abdicate.

I managed to stand up, supported by Harry's tomb. The light from the white candles shining brightly, the reflection of the silver statue hurt my eyes. The huge bishops statues on either side looked at me mockingly, their faces resembling the face of the one I abhorred - Cardinal Beaufort's. I shifted my gaze to the antelope, the beacon, and the inscription in stone below. I could recite those inscriptions without actually reading them.

"After heavy labor comes sweet rest."

Wait until this is over. I let out a long sigh and watched the mist dissipate before me, Chamberlain was already waiting outside, and as soon as I stepped out he draped a cloak over my shoulders. It had been snowing heavily for a while, and snowflakes were falling on my cloak, blotting out rings of stains.

It had snowed heavily on the day of Harry's coronation, when the golden brocade was laid out from the Tower of London all the way to Westminster. I rode behind Harry. All the world was pale, and the cheers of the crowd seemed aloof. All I could see in the blinding blizzard was the scarlet hem of Harry's robe, nothing more.

"Come," I said softly, lifting my eyes, with no more scarlet color in this pale white world to disturbed my mind, "Let's go to Bury St. Edmunds."


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was good at chess. In his youth, when he had leisure, he would have a few games of chess with me. We sat in the window seat in my cloister, a darkened room lit only by the sunlight streaming in through the narrow window, and outside the window, the black-robed scholars coming and going on the lawn of Balliol College. Father had heard my master’s praise and threw me into Oxford for further study, and I, being of a youthful and tireless nature, would take out the board after finishing my daily work, and would rack my brain, to hold myself longer opposite Harry when he next came to see me.

Harry played chess in an almost war-like manner, which I failed to realize at the time. But I did feel there was something going on beneath all those seemingly harmless moves of his. When he grew tired of the game, he would lift his face and smile at me, then in an instant finish his trick. When I finally came round and wiped the sweat off my forehead, he had already started to put the pieces back. After a few more rounds, I lost interest, and as the Welsh affairs laid even more heavily on his shoulders after his recovery from that near-fatal wound, and the dons of Balliol occupied my time with works, I gradually ceased playing with him.

Now that I think about it, there was some truth in my father's reluctance to entrust me with affairs, saying that although I was clever, I possessed not the patience to get things done. My brother Bedford once reproached me, saying that I took too simple a view of everything and that I did not understand Harry at all. But of course he talked nonsense. Harry was not invincible, but I always rushed into his traps without a second thought. I had seen him, sitting in the dark tent, holding his white pieces, looking at the board, the ivory chessman dangling between his slender fingers. He would drop them cautiously, as if he were playing against not himself, but the Frenchmen besieged within the city. The campaigns he undertook was like the games he played, as long as he got himself well-prepared, he set out to win. The common folks, seeing his victories yet blind to his detailed preparations beforehand, regarded him as a second St. George and venerated him as if he was a saint. Harry's plot had failed but once, when he had everything ready, but at the last minute, the board was overturned. Not only did he fail to get what he desired, but nearly got himself trapped in his own snare. I knew that, because I was the spoiled son of father’s, and the favorite brother of Harry’s, watching the intrigues of the court from the safety of Oxford. I knew that Harry's ambition to bring father down from the throne was genuine, so was father’s desire to get rid of him once and for all.

It was not for nothing that I recalled these old memories, but as I rode along on my horse, looking out over the English countryside, strange thoughts crossed my mind, as if I were back in Oxford, with a chessboard before me. Only this time it was not Harry who was playing against me, but a vain-looking man, the Dauphin of Bourges.

I had never seen him. When Harry was alive, he was like a mouse averting a cat, shrinking at the mere mention of Harry’s name. After Harry's death I was so sick of France, that I never set foot on it. So I never met him, but only knew him from others’ words. They said he was short and pale, with protruding, bony knees, and his eyelids always drooping as if long for a sleep, and that he favored nothing more than sleeping with any doxy who happened to be in his bed except his wife, apart from setting his nobles to quarrel with one another. I used to sneer at such an appearance, and silently sketch Harry's look within my mind, convincing myself that this Dauphin was no match for Harry. But now that the young king had grown up, whenever I reflect on Charles VII across the Channel, though I would not admit it, I could not help myself regarding Harry's only child inferior even to this uncle of his.

We had experienced hardship, but not desperateness. Harry's foresight was well beyond ours. When he, approaching his end, commanded us to hold Normandy by all means, he was preparing for the worst future possible. Normandy my brothers kept for twenty years, and despite all the turmoil, it withstood Charles' attacks and did not surrender to the so-called "Will of God" like those wavering fortresses in the hands of Burgundy. With Normandy as our base, and Maine and Vexin our frontline, if properly commanded, we could have struck back at Charles with much ease. Besides, the French were not of one heart themselves. Some desired peace whereas some desired war, and everyone strove to outstrip their opponents. Burgundy swore to be Charles's most loyal subject, but the two of them harbor different designs. Philip was obsessed with expanding his power in the Low Countries and Upper Burgundy, and was often in direct conflict with the king. He also felt that _he_ was the one who defeated England, and never took Charles or his courtiers seriously. Charles’ madcap heir also seems to have taken the point of Burgundy, for when Charles reached out for Aquitaine, the Dauphin Louis, with the help of Burgundy, created such havoc behind his back that he was forced to tame his own ungrateful son first, and for a while forgot about England. So Bedford had been right after all, when his soothsayer said that 1440 was a bad year for Charles – a pity Charles managed to survive. With the French fighting themselves in their usual manner, I could even imagine how Harry, sitting on the throne, would have manipulated them with his usual smirk, causing the French court to fall apart and the two factions fighting each other to the death, whereas he reaped the benefits, just as he used to do. Or had it not been Harry, but someone of a duller wit like my brother John, could have taken the opportunity to strengthen the borders and enhance our stand. But the young king was a weakling, and Suffolk, though obliged, was but a mediocre unfit for the task. Harry once marked that despite his good intentions, Suffolk seemed unfortunate in everything he undertook. And so, the time slipped, and Charles repressed his son before he once again eyed for England. And what did the young king do in the meantime? He was neither recruiting an army nor planning an expedition, but locked himself up in his study at Windsor Castle and was drawing up his designs for the King’s Hall with great care!

Had not the boy resembled Harry in his looks, I’d seriously doubt his paternity. To think that my brother, so valiant, wise, and vital, should leave such an imbecile as his heir!

Speaking of which, though I retired from the court with the excuse of ill-health, but the more important reason, was that I didn't know how to deal with this child Harry left behind. I had raised him. I had held him in my arms and explained to him the works of Aristotle. I had held his hand and helped him shoot his arrow. he had called me "fair uncle" with worship in his eyes. He had taken off his helmet after a tournament and looked at me with shining eyes for a word of praise. But now we had come to this. Such mutual disgust. He turning a deaf ear to everything I said, never sparing a glance at all those protests I made, and acquiescing his favorites to corrupt my reputation. The tender love in his youth has long since worn away.

It's all Bedford's fault, I thought irritably. Bedford, Beaufort, Suffolk, Kemp, Ormond, all of them up against me, encouraging my child to alienate me. I rubbed my brow and watched the fields and woods flicker by.

Harry had asked Exeter to raise the boy, and made me his tutor. But how was I supposed to tutor him?

I never knew. Nor had I the chance to ask.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had never seen his child, nor the child his father. Harry was away in France when his son was born. His health was already failing and his temper growing worse, and when he heard that he got a son, he did no more than smiled faintly and reward the messenger richly. When the man had gone out of the king's tent with a face lit with gladness, those few of us who remained in the royal tent watched Harry's face with wide eyes amidst the cheers and cannonade outside, feeling ourselves out of place in the festive atmosphere. It was James of Scotland who finally broke the silence, forcing a smile on his face to congratulate Harry on his new heir, adding that this must make our position in France more secure.

"How more secure?" Harry said absent-mindedly, "The Treaty of Troyes states that _my_ heir is entitled to the throne of France, and I have two brothers, quite improbable to become heirless even without my own child." As he said this, he cast a glance at me, " John's marriage with Burgundy’s sister I’ve nearly settled, and Humphrey's will not be a problem when I help the Countess Jacqueline get her divorce from Rome. You can postpone your congratulation to the time when Burgundy’s nephew and the heir to Holland are born."

Perhaps the messenger had had too many drinks that night and made a slip of the tongue, but the word somehow got around about Harry's nonchalant attitude that night. Once I went with Eleanor on a pilgrimage to St. Alban's the year Henry started his own rule, and the Abbot asked tentatively what Harry had said the day he heard the news. When I questioned him why did he desire knowledge of such a thing, he told me that there had been a prophetic ballad heard in the streets, and it spoke of things which Harry was supposed to have said when he heard that his son had been born at Windsor. When I questioned him further, he changed the subject. It was only later from Beckington that I learned about the exact content of the ballad. It was short, with but two lines. “I, Henry born in Monmouth, shall short reign and gain much. But Henry born in Windsor shall long reign and lose all.”

I'm not sure who's behind all these. Maybe just a nobody, using the name of Harry to utter his own discontent with Henry’s rule. Though I can't help but marvel at the foresight of those who made up these two lines as I watched what had become of our country over the years. The first half of it was already a fact, for Harry did but reigned nine short years and gained much - nothing less than the crown of France itself. As for the latter half, it was quickly becoming a fact under the ceaseless endeavour of his son. Paris was lost the year Henry began his rule, and things went from bad to worse as time went by. My brother John's gains had vanished upon his death. As for Harry’s conquests, the French Vixen was gone, and Maine and Anjou now surrendered by a treaty. Henry was but twenty-five years old, reigning for twenty-five years, and if he did "reigns long," as the ballad said, he might, at this rate, in ten years' time, had given England away.

It is a pity that Henry himself was unaware of this, but even complacent, that he had secure the empty words "perpetual peace" – though at what cost God and himself knew. When my sister Philippa married the Danish King Eric, Sir Henry FitzHugh, who had been one of Harry’s favourites and at his request accompanied her on her journey, brought back a copy of St. Bridget's prophecy from the abbey of Vadstena. Harry had always been a bit superstitious, and since it was the words of a saint, he believed in it. As for my father, he had come to power partly through the power of various prophecies, and he could not help believing them. I sometimes think that Harry and my father's repeated attempts to get him married to a Princess of France had something to do with Saint Bridget’s prophecy about "the son of the marriage of England and France shall bring true peace to the two kingdoms".

However, when they thus arranged Harry’s marriage, they probably never dreamed that the so-called _true peace_ contrived by "the son of the marriage of England and France", was gained by that son selling his country for nothing.

Not that I did not try to stop him. When I heard that he was going to marry Anjou's daughter, I was furious, and wrote hundreds of letters of protest: to the young king, to the council. But to no avail, and I had no choice but to leave Greenwich and go to the city myself.

He kept me waiting for three days, and on the fourth day sent a child in a royal tabard to tell me that the king had asked for me. The boy's routine smile was a little disconcerting as he met my eyes. There was something familiar about those grey, smiling eyes of his, and the more I looked at him the more familiar he looked, and I couldn't help but ask his name.

"I am a page from the king’s household, my lord may have seen me before. My name is Tudor, Edmund Tudor."

Ah, I thought, no wonder I believed I'd seen that face somewhere before. The boy looked exactly like his father, and with such a face of the Beauforts, how could I not find it familiar? His mother was an over-sexed whore, and within a year of Harry's death, she had begun to flirt with the Beaufort boy. Edmund Beaufort, who was about her own age, and had an empty head but a rather charming countenance, had so bewitched the little princess that rumours spread though the court, even Lydgate had written a poem about her "purity". Bedford and I were for once in agreement, for he did not wish to see a noble young stepfather of the king undermine his own authority while he was away, and I did not wish to see a Beaufort become stepfather to the young king. Our interests were so united that we had the council's approval without much ado, decreeing that the Dowager Queen Catherine could not remarry a nobleman until the young king had come of age, and that anyone who dare to violate this was liable to a fine and imprisonment.

She stopped us on the day the Parliament shouted "aye" to our decree, dressed in white. If ignore the outlandish Valois nose she was as pretty as the Madonna in the church, but beneath her beauty was a head as empty as the plaster Madonna.

"My Lords Protector have taken much pains to oppose me, a frail woman, and to prevent me from marrying the man of my choice," she raged, "and you may rest assured that this law of yours will be obeyed. I will not marry Edmund Beaufort, but still less shall I mourn your brother in perpetuity. When I remarry I will marry a man of such noble birth and such mean status, that will satisfy you and the council both."

It was not long before I heard that she had married a man of her court called Owen Tudor, a man of very noble birth, indeed – descendant of a Welshman by the name of King Cadwaladr, whoever that might be, and his father and uncles staunch supporter of that rebel Glyndwr. She hastily married a household servant, and in less than six months gave birth to a son christened Edmund. I didn't know whether Owen Tudor chose to be a cuckold voluntarily, but judging from what happened afterwards, he was quite content about it. Catherine gave birth to two more sons in a few years, one named Jasper and the other Owen, no doubt descendants of Cadwaladr instead of the Duke of Lancaster.

I did throw Owen Tudor into the Tower after Catherine's death, but Henry seemed so desperately craved for some siblings that when he learnt he had some half-blood brothers, he snatched them before I had time to react and plunged them into the Countess of Norfolk’s care, before transporting them into his own household as they grew up. I could not do anything about it, and did not do anything about it. For my hatred was directed towards the Frenchwoman and her paramour, and not to innocent children who knew nothing of their mother’s misdeeds.

I followed Tudor out of the Hall of the Hospitallers, and the first thing I saw on the street was the French royal flag of _azure, seme-de-lys or_ , flying proudly over the streets of London, and the arrogance of the Frenchmen beneath this flag. I could not help but think, upon seeing this wonder, that it might as well had been that England had fallen, London in the hands of the enemies, and the French were now heading towards Westminster to accept the surrender of the petit king.

This feeling was intensified when I entered Westminster Hall and saw the gleaming little king eagerly befriending the French ambassadors with a flattering smile on his face. I saw him exchange glances with Suffolk, and I saw Kemp shaking his head at me imperceptibly from behind. But I was furious. When my father and brother were alive, I had stood by them, proudly greeted the Emperors of East and West. But now the King of England was bowing and flattering the ambassador of that good-for-nothing Dauphin of Bourges? I opened my mouth despite Kemp crazily hinting at me, feeling myself on the verge of explosion.

"I'm glad that some certain person is here," I suddenly heard Henry's voice rise, and turned to find him staring at me with unabashed despise on his face. He was looking cruel and remote, reminding me of the way Harry had looked when he had looked down on the Frenchmen were kneeling at his feet offering the city keys, "To hear our decisions for himself. Seeing him discontent furthers our joy - it shows we've made the right decision."

His words fell on me, like icy water quenching the fire of fury within me, leaving nothing but hollowness within my breast. I saw the Frenchman glance at me and turn his attention back as if I were a court jester. I saw Henry laugh and speak to them, making empty promises, and then turn his attention to me again, with silent menace in his eyes.

He hates me. I thought blankly. Was Charles’ baits really so magical, was the word "peace" so sweet that the child I had raised, to hear the ringing of its sound in his ear, would abandon me without mercy and join my enemies in mocking me? I looked around, but as far as I could see, all were my enemies, the cowards who had betrayed me and betrayed Harry and bent on making peace with Charles. Beaufort was standing in front of Kemp, his head hanging low, his cardinal’s hat casting a shadow over his face. But I could well imagine that triumphant smile on his face- Bastard! Bastard! I had stopped his horse at Southwark and questioned him, why he, when Harry was alive, could tell Parliament that "he that desires peace let him have war", but now crowdedly selling our rights and indulging the naïve thoughts of the king.

"Humphrey," Beaufort had said, sounding like he was soothing a tantrum, "time has changed."

I was trying to leave, as I had done when he freed Orleans, but Warwick held me.

"Stay," he whispered, "the king has asked me to tell you that he wishes to speak with you alone after he has seen the French ambassadors."

Speak with me alone? I knew he would but humiliate me still further, and yet I could not refuse the summon of my king. I lingered at the door of the Green Chamber waiting for the king to summon me, listening to the heartily laughter from inside the room.

The door finally opened and Suffolk came out with a smile on his face, which waivered a bit upon seeing me but held.

"Why, ‘tis my lord of Gloucester! What an honour! Do come in. Do come in. The king can't wait to see you."

I put an arm over his shoulder, blocking his way.

"De la Pole," I said calmly, "Is this how you repay my brothers, for treating you well and trusting you?"

"Naturally, " Suffolk smiled, "Time has changed, my lord. Now that England's coffer is empty and men are weary of war, I fear your ways will not do. I tell you, now that you are a ruined man, and the King hates you to the bone, nobody marks you! What is the use of crying in the street when no man regards you? I don't care at all what you say, and I don't care whether you oppose me or not. Anyway, your words don't carry more weight than a goose feather now."

"You!"

I was so angry that I forgot that I had had a stroke a few years ago, and that half my body was sluggish. I grabbed Suffolk by the collar and threw up my fist, but the door of the green chamber slammed open at that moment, so fast that I thought the little king must had been pinning his ear to the door, listening to our conversation.

"Ah, fair uncle," he still used the same affectionate tone he used to use when he spoke to me, but I noticed there was no smile in his eyes. He hates me, I thought to myself. How on earth could I overlook it? "I say, uncle, what’s the matter between my lord of Suffolk and you? Suffolk, is this how you do your bidding? Dawdling here when I ask you to receive my uncle's emissary? Go now!"

Suffolk glanced at me smugly, and broke away from me. I followed the young king into the green chamber, my eyes following him around as he pulled the curtains open and closed them again, opened the drawer of the desk Gian Galeazzo had given my father, pulled out a roll of parchment and retrieved it, picked up a quill, dipped it in the ink bottle, and tossed it back into the ink bottle before finally looking up at me.

"Sit, fair uncle, sit," he pointed to the stool opposite the desk. I sat down, suddenly finding the scene eerily familiar. If Harry wanted me to do something against my will, he would fuss about in almost the same manner before he bid his request. I remembered that he had summoned me suddenly once and told me that he could not take me with him to the congress at Calais, but that I was to be given to the Burgundians as a hostage and go to live with Philip, Count of Charolais. It was one of the rare incidences when I lost my temper at him.

"Why me?" I asked, "Because Thomas is your heir - too valuable to be given away, and John is useful to you and you will keep him close-by? What about me? Do I count for nothing? Am I dispensable?"

Harry sighed and walked around the desk, kneeling in front of me. I watched my distorted reflection in his dark eyes.

"Nay, Humphrey," he whispered, his fingers touching the back of my hand, "but you are the apple of our eyes."

He's Harry's child, I told myself. He's Harry's only child.

"The king's marriage is a matter not only of the king himself, but of goodwill and alliances between nations," I said slowly, searching his face with my gaze inch by inch. I don't actually remember much of Harry's face now, only a vague recollection. The young king had Harry’s oval face, yet looked less like Harry and more like his mother, the Frenchwoman, and inherited her Valois nose. I vaguely remember that the shape of his eyes was somewhat like Harry's, but the color of them were lighter, and he always looked at people with a kind of unworldly innocence, which never existed in Harry. "When King Joao of Portugal, in order to weigh himself against the alliance between Castile and France, sought the help of England, he married your grand-aunt Philippa, and allied with our house. Now that your legitimate rights have been challenged by the French, who have secretly sent men into Scotland and Wales to stir up riots, and have even incited the heretics in England to rebel, it is high time to take the opportunity of your wedding to make peace with the strongest nation and to make plans for the greater good. Now, the king of Portugal was the only king in all Christendom friendly to you. But king Alfonso is still in his tender years and Portugal is far from England and unable to assist our cause. But your highness, with no regard to England, has allowed Beaufort and his men to arrange your marriage with a daughter of Rene of Anjou, a staunch supporter of your great enemy, and, in order to wed this woman, has agreed to nearly all demands of the enemy. It must be remembered that alliances between nations are based on mutual benefits. If other nations see that my lord has made such a great concession to the enemy for a marriage of so little interest, they will surely, for their own good, withdraw from entering into alliance with England. By contracting such a marriage, my lord would not only gain no help, but lose many potential allies. For each concession you make in the face of the enemy, a thousand men shall desert your cause."

"So, who does Uncle think I should marry?" Henry laughed, his eyebrows quirking, and a fat white cat jumped onto his lap, laying its paws on the desk and staring at me. He stroked its fur, "Isabella of Armagnac? The slut who committed incest with her own brother? But maybe you don't think it's a big deal." He peered at me in a thoughtful manner.

"Isabella of Armagnac? And her brother?"

To be honest, I don't know much about this Isabella, and I want Henry to marry her because the Count d'Armagnac's domain is adjacent to Aquitaine, and bringing him into our cause will be a relief to the Duchy. Also, because the betrayal of Burgundy is so taunting that I’d love to get back at it. As for the Armagnac girls, Isabella was the only one marriable, and also of nearly the same age of Henry. As for the girl herself, I had heard by hearsay that she was a perfect match for Henry, with her beautiful face, and her stupid mind. As for her affair with her brother the Count, I’d never heard of it - how did the little king know?

"Indeed," he replied lazily, grabbing the fur at the back of the cat's neck and placing it over his face to cover his eyes, "My eyes hurt at your sight. So you didn't even ask around before playing the role of a matchmaker? Armagnac and his sister committing incest in the castle on L’Isle-Jourdain, and the girl was even now, pregnant. What a good match my fair uncle has made for me! That I should marry a woman in labor, and be the mocking jape of the whole Christendom? It's fortunate that uncle was kind enough to remind me, otherwise I would still be kept ignorant."

"What did you call him?" I felt the fire within me rekindled, and all at once I rose to my feet, knocking over the stool, "I might think that you’ve tried to please the French by calling him thus in front of them. But in private? Charles is your archenemy! Do you really regard him as your uncle?"

"He's my father's enemy, not mine. He is my mother's brother, and therefore my uncle. What’s wrong with this? You must not blame me for this," he said, as the cat lay on his face and coiled up with a languid look, "but blame my father for taking a wife recklessly. For by heaven methinks ‘tis a rare thing indeed, to wed the sister and yet fight against her brother."

I looked at him and a sense of impotent absurdity came over me. The fire quenched, and my heart cold at his declaration.

"You’re speaking of your father, my brother." I couldn't see his face, but I could see his hand slowing clenching at his side, "It is his shadow that shields you and keep you firmly on the throne. I suggest you show him due respect."

What was unsaid I left it unsaid. I was not Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, the redeless uncle of Richard II, and I knew that it was treason to threaten the king. I remember when Burgundy the truce-breaker, seeking to maintain his merchandizing with England after all the things he had done, sent his wife, our Portuguese cousin Isabella, as ambassador to negotiate with us. Though the whole England hated the Burgundians, the little king could not refuse audience with his aunt. I had seen Isabella once before I withdrew from court. She was dressed in black, her robe embroidered with golden thread, and holding a rosary in her right hand. Upon hearing my entrance, she looked up at me with dark eyes and startled me. I had heard that Aunt Philippa had taken the look after her father my grandfather, but I had not expected to find that her daughter looking almost identical as her mother, whose English ancestry was immediately apparent upon seeing her face. Suddenly I felt a little sorry for Burgundy, for if I’d been in his shoes, I would rather have no heir than share a bed with a woman who looked like Philip - though it is said that Burgundy treated her coldly, and spent the first half of her wedding night in her chamber, and the second half with his many mistresses, with whom he laughed at her and made merry with her looks, saying she was "Mediocre in appearance, ill-dressed, and even worse in bed. I’d never trust Bedford’s matchmaking again. People would think I've married a nun." So he continued his malpractice after his wedding, gained an ambassador to bargain with England, and the heir he so desperately craved. Thinking all and all, he lost nothing but gained much from my brother Bedford’s matchmaking.

"England is far from what Mother had told us," she said softly as I got up to leave, her dark eyes fixed on me. "Mother read us the chronicles of England, and said that it was the tradition in England that if a king was unfit to rule, he should be deposed and a virtuous member of the royal family should be chosen, as was the case with my uncle. I see that your king is weak-minded, so why not invoke the old rules and choose a wiser man?"

I looked into her cold, dark eyes and suddenly remembered that the woman in front of me had almost married Harry. The papal dispensation sought and gained, but with aunt Philippa’s sudden death she had to rule the court for her father and brother ere Portugal had a new queen, and Harry had fixed his gaze upon the Frenchwoman, so all the negotiations went to naught.

What did I say to her then?

"The king is imperfect but not unwise. My fair cousin need not tempt me with that."

Imperfect but not unwise? I suddenly felt myself extremely naïve. The first thing I'd do, had I but the power to turn the clock back, would be to smother this kid in his swaddling clothes ere he reigned.

The cat yelped and hid itself under the table with its tail between its legs, its blue eyes staring resentfully at its master. Henry had flung it to the floor when he squared up. He was standing in front of me now, looking up at me, smiling, his eyes cold as ice.

"Why? Stop pretending, Gloucester? Go on? For me, for England, for Christendom and alliance! Do you think me blind? Or that I could not judge with my own eyes? All of you! Every single one of you! The way you looked at me just now. Don’t you think that because I speak nothing I do not know. You're looking at _him!_ All of you! But _I_ am the King of England, why should I follow him in all aspects and be his substitute according to your wishes! What's so great about him that you will venerate him more than you respect _me!_ We are at this present mess because of _him!_ He's the one who dragged us into this war! If you have to blame someone, blame _him!"_

"If my lord my brother was still alive, how could we have been in such a mess?" I dropped my eyes to see his fair face purple and swollen. He was so unlike Harry. "Upon his accession he disgraced the French and captured the Duke of Orléans, but you ignored his final wishes and returned Orléans to the French, disgracing us in the face of our archenemy. What right do you have to compare yourself to him?"

"He's dead!" The little king roared, grabbing the silver goblet from the table and throwing it at me, "Your Harry is dead, Gloucester! He's been dead for twenty years. His bones rotten away! I am your king! You are now my subject, not his! How dare you keep using him to insult me!

Something clutched at my chest, and for a moment I couldn't even breathe. Harry was dead, Harry's bones were rotting beneath Westminster. and the one who he had asked us to protect on his deathbed; the one he had asked us to love for the sake of loving him, his own son, spoke of him in a manner unconcerned, even with hatred. "Did you not read any of the histories I present to your highness? Do you think, if you weren't Harry's only son, you'd still be sitting so securely on the throne?"

"Do I need history to remind me?" he sneered, "Do you not prove to me day by day yourselves? Yea, do you not remind me every time you see me, that I am able to hold the throne because of him, that you tolerate me because you love him, that you love him and that is why you support me. Your loyalty is not to me, but to him! You're more loyal to a dead man than you are to me! Then what am I? I am the King of England but what am I?"

"Your Highness does ill-befit the King of England," I said, so furious that my voice miraculously calmed. "After all, I have never heard any King of England since King John, whose subjects riot and attack each other and he unable to quench, and who is hated by both sides of the quarrel for his inability; who refuse to fight abroad, and has lost his subjects and his lands despite all the advantages; who either seek to cut expenses nor persuade the commons to pay; who spend beyond his means and reward and punish according not to their deeds but to his own favoritism; who only hear the flatters of his favourites but not the sage advices of his council and ministers. Whereas my -"

"Shut up!" Something else flew past my ear and slammed against the wall of the green chamber, "Don't you ever speak of him in front of me! He! What did he know? All he sought was war. I don't know what you love about him! I told you I'd never be like him! It is peace that I seek! Peace! Now France is willing to give me the peace I want, and what he failed to do, I can!"

"Even if this peace would drain our blood?" I asked softly, "Even if this peace means that we give way to our archenemy and offer all that we have bled and died for?" I thought of the hideous scar on my thigh, aching whenever it rained, "Was everything we sacrificed for vain, did my brothers die for nothing?"

"They died because of your brother’s greed. If you want to blame anyone, blame your Harry," he sneered, "Also, since you talk of nothing else except how you love him more than anyone else, why didn't you die for him like they all did, but cower in Greenwich to live out your days? Is your love so low?"

I looked at the expression on his face and suddenly remembered the year he came of age, when I led an army to relieve the siege of Calais. How vigorous I was then. With Bedford dead and Burgundy turned-coat, there was no one to hold me down. I could ask the charge of Normandy, Bedford was unable to carry out Harry's will, and I will do it. But who could have imagined that in but one night I would be struck with malady, and left to languish in Greenwich, unmarked and unaccompanied?

"I don't know," I said, turning my head to avert his face, "maybe it is God's punishment for me."


	6. Chapter 6

It was nearly dusk when we arrived at the Abbey of St. Alban's, and Abbot Whethamstede himself went out to greet us, telling me that the best apartment in the monastery where I was accustomed to stay was ready for me, and bade the monks attend to my wagons, telling me that dinner was ready, and that everything was at my command.

"You shall sit down and dine with me, Abbot." I smiled, "I should trust your conversation to make my meal more lively."

Two hours later, I was sitting at the end of the long table where the monks dined and chatting with the abbot, with a glass of the wine in my hand. The wine which the king had given the abbey last year for masses and which, from Bordeaux, had broken through the blockade of France and Navarre to arrive at England.

St. Alban's was the hub of England long before I was born, with everyone entering or leaving London passing through St. Alban's Way, only in recent years did it fall into decline, and the number of pilgrims was far from what it used to be. "Even our chronicles are beginning to lack material," the abbot said so, sighing heavily. St. Alban's Abbey had always prided itself on its chronicles, the magnificent book which began with Aeneas' flight from Troy, "Is milord on your way to the Parliament?"

"Naturally," I took a sip of my wine, "Any rumour you’ve heard from my enemies? Of what imagined mischief I am proposing at this Parliament?"

The Dean peeped at me from beneath drooping eyelids.

"I have heard something," he admitted, "and it has been said that what drives you to attend Parliament this time is to obtain a pardon from the King for Lady Eleanor."

"Where did you hear such things," I thought of Eleanor, and for a moment I didn't know what to say, "Eleanor had just been sentenced the year before last, the evidence overwhelming. Suffolk and his minions had taken it out on me only last year, charging me with abuses of power during my regency, forcing me to appear in court to prove my innocence. The young king has always doubted me, and was convinced that what Eleanor had done, was instructed by me. Anyway, he would not have given me the pardon even if I ask for it, but would have been more suspicious of me."

"Then what brings your highness to it?"

"Suffolk sneaked off to visit Charles in France," I snickered, "and the king dares to join forces with our enemies against us! I've only recently heard wind of it, too, and it seems that when Charles agreed that Rene of Anjou should marry his daughter to the boy, Suffolk signed an addendum with him, and in order to consummate the marriage, the little king agreed to offer Maine and Anjou to Charles! Ha! What a joke! When my father and Harry were in lives, I didn't dream of the King of England taking a bride without dowry and giving away land for her sake!"

Whethamstede was stunned.

"But ... but all the garrisons and immigrants and merchants in Maine and Anjou! Once surrendered to Charles, it's bound to start unrest in the country. How could he agree to such a request! But if the treaty were signed before his marriage, why didn’t we hear anything?"

"Why?" I laughed, "Because this King of ours has gone too far in selling out his country this time, even the garrison could not stand the sight of it and refused to surrender as ordered. Charles had to continue the siege. This was an act of bravery, but the king felt that they were disregarding him, and ordered that the supplies to the garrison of Maine and Anjou be cut off, and that the Norman garrison should not support them either. As you know, the governor of Normandy is a Beaufort, who obeys the cardinal and the little king. The Norman garrison can only watch our own cities fall before their eyes. From what I have heard, only a few days ago, Le Mans has fallen. To think, what uproar the news shall cause when it reaches home. I must break the news to the council before it is too late, and force the young king withdraw his orders and support the garrison. A swift counter-attack shall be made before Charles has set himself up in Maine and Anjou, so that we might still have a chance."

I talked with Whethamstede, till I became a bit dizzy, and then I bade him good night. He had been looking very anxious ever since he had heard of the king's odd behaviour. He summoned one of his monks to take me upstairs, and in a low voice bade me careful not to make Beaufort and Suffolk and others realise that I was about to expose them. But the abbot could rest assured, I thought giddily, even if they did find out, what could they do? As the First Duke of the Kingdom, the King's heir-presumptive, could they charge me with treason and throw me to the Isle of Man like they did with Eleanor?

"Father?"

I gathered my thoughts, and saw Arthur standing at the door of my room, waiting for me.

"What is it?" I asked, Arthur was now acting as a steward of my household, and so I naturally thought that he was coming to me for advice on another matter that he couldn't handle, "Were the rough men having a quarrel with the monks again?"

Arthur shook his head.

"A Carthusian came and asked this letter to be delivered to you," he said, drawing a thin sheet of paper from his bosom, "when you were dining with the abbot, and the men reported it to me, and I took it upon myself to receive it. "

"Did the monk tell you where the letter was from?" I asked staring at Arthur.

Arthur shook his head.

"Any token?"

Arthur shook his head and nodded again.

"It's not...it's a gold collar, SS and antelope... But anything further he would not tell me."

I heard him describe the style of the collar and my heart sank, the words that had come to my lips to tell him not to accept things of unknown origin vanished, and I hurriedly asked: "Has the letter been checked?"

The expression on Arthur's face was even more uneasy.

"Indeed...Strange. So I thought father might be interested in reading it."

Naturally, I was interested and took it from him, my hand shaking a bit as I unfolded the parchment.

"If you value your life, stay away from the present parliament. Flee England."

"It's some sort of prank," I folded the letter up and tucked it into the pouch hanging from my waist, "Go get some sleep and forget the matter."

Arthur's brow locked, "But the letter..."

I sneered, he silenced himself and turned to leave, I watched him disappearing into the darkness, unwittingly put my hand into the bag, fondling the letter.

The flames in the fireplace flickered merrily, and illumined the carved walnut bed that had already been made. Everything was as it had been when I had come with Eleanor on pilgrimages, as if Eleanor would be behind me the next moment, smiling, closing the door and undressing me, and we would still be the noblest duke and duchess in England.

The sound of the door closing behind me broke the illusion, and I waved my hand at the two squires guarding the door.

"Out," I heard my voice take on a weary edge, probably the aftermath of my evening cupidity. My doctors had given me strict instructions forbidding drinking, "I want to be alone for a while."

I watched the door close again and pulled the letter out of my pouch, studying it till I gave up and threw it into the fire, determined to forget the whole thing.

If it was a prank, then the person who came up with the idea took great pains to get the great collar of Harry as a token. I knew in my heart that this was not a simple prank. The purpose of the one who wrote the letter, whether friend or foe, was nothing more than to prevent me from attending the meeting. If an enemy, it was just to make me back off, lest I say something unpleasant to them again and make them lose face. If a friend, then it was to remind me that someone else is going to take advantage of the opportunity to do me wrong.

But would they not do me wrong if I keep away from parliaments? I had excused myself with illness, but it did not prevent them from accusing me of maneuvering the king and emptying the treasury during my Regency, and causing me to appear at court to defend myself. I remember meeting Beaufort outside the chamber, with his cardinal’s hat on, and grinning at me with malice.

"I still remember when you, nephew, opposed your brother Bedford, saying that if you had done anything wrong, only the king would be able to question you when he grew up... My nephew, when you framed us, did you ever expect that you would come to this? "

"Frame you?" I was about to spit in his face, "Everything I accused you of I accused you justly! Wasn't it because Bedford was too cowardly to fight that Harry's work was nearly destroyed? Wasn't it against Harry's wishes that you took up that big hat of yours? I have been in power for twenty years, and what fault I have, expect being loyal towards Harry and the king?"

Beaufort smiled, "So you think yourself without fault?" He shook his head and walked away without waiting for me to reply, "If you're without fault, then your brothers were saints!"

I've had a rather restless night's sleep, perhaps because of that strange letter. I dreamed that I was standing in the hall of Leicester Castle, pleading my innocence, and that the little king was and looking at me with a stern face; I dreamed that Harry was holding my hand and Jacqueline's and smiling kindly, and Lydgate was reading out his long verses with great eagerness; I dreamed that Jacqueline, with hair loose and eyes swelling, snapping at me like a madwoman; I dreamed that Bedford slapped me in the face and accused me of failing Harry; I dreamed that Harry swore to me through gritted teeth that Beaufort would never be a cardinal as long as he lived; I dreamed that Beaufort flaunted his big hat in front of me, and the blurred figures around me laughed mockingly at me. The confusion of dreams faded away, and in my mind, I saw the red sandstone walls of Kenilworth castle, a boy holding the reins of another boy’s horse, and an old, bearded man standing by the drawbridge, watching them. I felt a vague sense of familiarity, but was confused as to where exactly I had seen it before.

"Brother," I heard the child holding the reins whimper, "don't go to court. If you do go, take me with you. I don't want to live with Blanche and Philippa anyway."

Then I remembered me where I had seen this sight before. It was when my father had just been banished by King Richard and he had arranged for Thomas to go with him before he left, John was staying with my grandfather, my two sisters and I went to live with Sir Hugh, and Harry had been summoned to court by King Richard.

I felt like I was floating in mid-air watching my younger self sobbing and weeping. Had I done such a thing then, holding Harry’s horse by the rein to keep him from going? I couldn't remember. I held my breath and watched as Harry, the young boy in my dream, leaned down and took the weeping boy’s hands from the rein and held them in his palm.

"Humphrey," I heard Harry's voice ring out from a distance, a little more childish than I remembered, a lot less worried, "let go. Our Lord has summoned, and I must go."

Suddenly a thick fog drifted in f and my grandfather, Harry and the younger me disappeared. I found myself floating in a cloud of fog, and before me stood a figure in a blue houppelande. Somehow, even though I couldn't see his face in the dream, I felt firmly that it was Harry, so I called his name and ran towards him. But no matter how hard I tried, the distance between us was the same and even a little further away. When I was exhausted and didn't want to make any more useless efforts, the figure suddenly opened its mouth, using exactly Harry's voice.

"Humphrey," the shadow said, "you've let me down."

He strode towards the depths of the fog, without stopping at my call. I would have pursued him, but then I heard a young woman's sobbing coming from nearby. As a knight I should take women’s need as a priority, and in dreams there is no exception. I followed the sound, and saw a small, plump women sobbing, with her back towards me.

"Lady," I asked in my dream, "why are you weeping?"

The woman turned to reveal Jacqueline's face, an older Jacqueline, fatter than when I had left her in Hainault, her face drooping and ugly, her makeup washed away by tears. She terrified me. But she had seen my face and lunged at me, her twisted face looked like the devils painted on church walls.

"You! Humphrey of Gloucester, you! You heartless, fickle villain! You married me for my father's estate and have no power to reclaim it for me! You! I trust you with my life, and you take that bitch away and leave me in the mercy of Burgundy! Locked away for the rest of my life! I curse you, Gloucester! I curse you! I curse your name every day for the rest of my life! I curse you and the bitch who took my place to die shameful deaths!"

I shrieked and spread my legs to run as fast as I could. But no matter how hard I tried, she always followed close to me, cursing my name loudly as she chased after me. I don't know how long I ran, but I felt someone patting me on the shoulder, and the dream faded away, Jacqueline disappeared, and Arthur's candle-lit face appeared before my eyes. I heard a cock outside my window and struggled to get up and get dressed. By the time I stepped out onto the sunlit St. Alban's road a few hours later, I didn’t remember the dream at all.


	7. Chapter 7

I met the cavalry where I could see the steeple of the church of Bury.

They came from the direction of Bury, about two hundred of them, each in heavy armor, their horses fat and strong, and the one at the head saluted me, saying that he had been sent by the king to escort me into the city.

"The king is so considerate," I said indifferently. My relationship with him is nothing better than my relationship with Beaufort since the two of us had that argument before he got married. It would be a wonder of the world if Henry was really being kind, "But as you can see, I have eighty guards of my own with me, and the journey into the city from here is short and without brigands, so there is really no need for your escort."

I felt that man's smile hid a hint of contempt.

"My lord, the king's order is for us to escort you to your apartment to rest first. The weather is cold, with all the wind and the snow, and you have never been well. If you go straight to the parliament, I am afraid you will fall ill. The King gives this order for your own good."

I looked up, and the sky was clean, without rain or snow, only a pale-faced sun hanging in the sky, giving out light without heat.

They knew.

"The king's warrant?"

He bowed and pulled out a roll of parchment. I spread it out and saw Henry's crooked signature. My men had been surrounded by the men Henry had sent, and it was impossible to get away.

Besides, where could I run to?

I nodded at him, my voice a little shaky.

"Lead."

Ere I was born, when King Richard reigned, my grandfather, the Duke of Lancaster, was the head of the nobility. My grandfather's youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, was impatient with Richard's favourites, so he took advantage of my grandfather's departure for Castile to gather four noblemen and challenged the king’s authority. These things were told to us long afterwards, before my father's accession, by an old man of Hainault named Froissart. According to him, at that time King Richard fled into the White Tower, and the Duke of Gloucester entered the Tower and demanded that he should expel his favourites and hold Parliament. When Richard refused, the Duke of Gloucester threatened him with Edward II, saying, "It is the tradition of England that if the kings are unsuitable to govern, he should be deposed and a virtuous member of the royal family installed in his stead. Now that Edward III has three surviving sons, we can depose you and make one of us three brothers king. If you refuse, Edward II will be your example." Thus, he took away the king's seal, put Richard under house arrest, and assumed the king's authority. Three days later King Richard surrendered, agreeing to all the Duke of Gloucester's demands.

When the Duke of Gloucester fell, I was but a boy, and remember vaguely that everyone seemed to be in a hurry in those days, that my grandfather and father were away from home all day, and that even my sisters' governess had that look of anxiety on her face. When Harry came back from the Earl of Salisbury, I chased after him, asking him to explain the matter straight.

"Uncle Gloucester is finished," Harry couldn't stand my pestering him, and explained it to me so, "he seems trying to play his old trick again. King Richard heard the news, and arrested him for treason, locked him up at Calais. Grandfather is now endeavouring to save his life."

When we grew up, we figured out that it was not uncle Gloucester’s plotting rebellion, but only King Richard’s revenge on the Lords Appellants. As for Gloucester himself, Grandfather, despite his best efforts, was unable to save his life after all. King Richard banished my father for bringing up this murder, and he himself overthrown. A hundred gloves were thrown down at my father's first Parliament, and the nobles accusing each other and nearly fought in Westminster Hall.

I sat in the hall, looking down at the dishes before me, somehow recalling this incident. Outside the door, two hundred soldiers surrounded my apartment, and unless I was a wizard, I could never escape. I was suddenly a little curious as to what the king would do to me. Keeping me here and doing nothing until the council is over and then let me go? That would fit his indecisive nature, but my enemies would never let him do that. Like King Richard dealing with the other Gloucester, accuse me of treason, get my confession and then execute me in secret? It sounded like a good idea, but if he really had the guts to do such a thing, he wouldn't have made the situation so deplorable all these years. I sat alone in the cold, wet hall, suddenly jealous of my Uncle Gloucester. When my uncle was behind bars, he still had a brother to plead for him. Now I was also falsely accused by my nephew, but with no brother to plead for my case.

It was the first time I had ever missed Bedford so much.

I heard a soft, sweet ringing at the door. The nobleman of England was no longer the warriors of Harry's reign, but was more and more like the jesters of King Richard’s court, with their long hair, strange clothes, stiff shoes that reached to their knees, and a ring of bells around their ankles. I looked up and saw several men coming in. Humphrey Stafford, Earl of Stafford - no, the Duke of Buckingham now, that French woman's old paramour Edmund Beaufort - what should he be called now? Dorset...the Marquis of Dorset? That Neville boy was close behind him, and I remember he married Salisbury's daughter, then he's probably the Earl of Salisbury now. And the man who came last, the one who took over as Lord High Constable of England upon the death of Bedford. What was his name again? Beaufort? No, Beaumont. He who claimed kinship with Thomas Earl of Lancaster. I myself never held much affection towards Walter Hungerford, yet it grieved me to think that Hungerford, once Harry’s most trusted favourites, should flatter this Beaufort’s ward and gave him my grandfather’s golden cup, simply because he, with the help of Beaufort, held the young king’s ears. What was he now, "Viscount Beaumont"? The young king's obsession for inventing useless and fancy titles was very similar to that of King Richard. They stood in a line before me, but I did not rise and they did not speak, their eyes wandering, avoiding my gaze.

"Young Stafford," I asked calmly, "are you coming to dine with me?"

Buckingham coughed awkwardly, and I glanced out the window to see the sun reflecting on a row of helmets.

"What, Buckingham, barging into someone's house without even a word of explanation? Is this what my father taught you?"

Buckingham coughed again and cast a glance at the others. I followed his gaze. Edmund Beaufort glanced at me and quickly averted his eyes. Salisbury frowned, as if studying the pattern on the floor. Beaumont stepped forward and opened his mouth. At the sound of his voice, I suddenly thought that it was a good thing Bedford was dead, or else he, as Lord High Constable of England, should have come to arrest me himself, which would have been worse than having me killed on the spot.

"Humphrey of Gloucester," Beaumont spoke in a voice so loud and clear that could probably be heard in the street, "By the order of King Henry the Sixth I arrest you now on the charge of high treason."

"I desire to see the king." I said.

"The king doesn't want to see you," replied Beaumont, "why would he want to see a traitor?"

"You know best whether I am a traitor," I said softly, "I am the son, brother and uncle of kings, and it is not upto you to speak to me in such a tone. You know well enough that if I wanted to commit treason, I would have done so long ago, and who would have been able to stop me?"

"It has been rumoured at court that you have recently recruited troops in Wales with the intention of taking advantage of this parliament to assassinate the king," Salisbury was still frowning at the floor, "is this true?"

I frowned, finding the accusation somehow familiar.

"I've been unwell each winter and stayed always at Greenwich. I don't know who harbors malice towards me and spreads such rumors to ruin my reputation. I want to see the King."

_The root is dead…_

"God as my witness, I have been loyal to England and the king all my life. I want to see the King, and I want to confront the man who dares to accuse me of treason."

_The swan is gone…_

"This sword of mine, under my brother’s command, have made the French tremble. If I do rise, my sword is against the French and not the English."

_The fire cresset has lost its beam…_

"You are merely coming up with such a charge to try to get rid of me. Do you dare to show your evidence against me, and have me tried by my peers?"

_Therefore England may make good mourn…_

"My Lord of Gloucester," said Buckingham softly, "calm yourself. We are merely asking you to stay here for your safety, and not to wander about. The King will come to see you when he wishes to see you."

_Were not for the help of God Almight…_

I want to say something else. I have a hundred complaints within me. I'm going to curse Beaufort, Kemp and Suffolk for their ambitions; the petit king for his foolishness; the Dowager Queen for having such a hopelessly stupid son; and Harry for leaving such an heir for me to tutor. I rose to my feet and walked towards them, but stumbled suddenly into complete darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

When I woke up again, the room was lit and a strange man was sitting under the light, napping. I barely lifted my arm, making some noise that woke him up.

"My lord is awake?" He asked. It seemed to be some minor nobleman, some sort of knight or baron or something, I couldn't remember, my vision was blurry and I couldn't see anything clearly, even my mind was a little slow, "Does your lordship want something?"

I opened my mouth, and it took some effort for the sound to come out.

"A priest. Beaufort, fetch Beaufort."

I didn't really expect Beaufort to come in person, so I was a little surprised when the door opened again and a bald, shiny head slowly appeared in my sight. I looked towards the door, noting that the square-faced man hadn't left.

"Go," I said, "The cardinal shall shrive me."

The man looked a little reluctant, but bowed nonetheless and withdrew. Beaufort turned his face to me.

"Awake?" The Cardinal said bitterly, "What a fool you are! I took such pain to send you a message telling you not to come, and you still come! For what? To seek death?"

I was shocked...that inexplicable note...was from him?

"I know you don't like me. Yes, you're headstrong and annoying and you've been against me for years. But as God is my witness, you're the only heir to the royal house of Lancaster, and I wouldn't want you dead! I sent a messenger to you as soon as I heard the news, but unfortunately it didn't seem to help."

"Not you?"

"Can't you see?" Beaufort asked, and I thought he was talking crap again. If I could see that, I wouldn't be trapped in this bed right now: I couldn't even see the outline of his balding head clearly, "I'll tell you what, this whole thing was a set-up from the start! Haven't you ever wondered why Parliament was suddenly moved at the last minute, from Cambridge to Bury St Edmund's? Suffolk heard the wind and knew that you had gotten word of the fall of Le Mans and known the contents of the marriage contract, and he decided to make the first move. Rather than clean up the mess after you made a big deal out of it, he wanted to make sure you wouldn't have a chance to speak from the start."

His voice was low, and I knew what he was afraid of. I lay on the bed, looking at the curtain above me, with Beaufort's ramblings in my ears, and suddenly it all felt so unreal...how long had it been since he and I had spoken without cursing each other?

"Suffolk met Charles in Paris, and my informant tells me that Charles invited him to dine with him. He mentioned Agincourt at the dinner, and said with a smile that he remembered the bravery of the English, even though he was but a boy. Suffolk could only say that he was too young to remember well, and that, as his father and brother had died at Harfleur and Agincourt, he was naturally all the more anxious to have peace with France.

"Charles just laughed and said 'Is that so, my Lord of Suffolk? I remember that many of the men who slaughtered our nobles on the French soil are still alive. Your king's uncle Gloucester, for example, was old, and foolish to think that we are no match for you now, and although all three of his brothers died because of your late king's ambition, he has never repented and insists on opposing us. As long as he lives, we will never achieve permanent peace. My Lord of Suffolk, am I right?'

"Suffolk was cold and sweaty and agreed. He also said that you have many supporters in London and Wales, despite your withdrawal from court. He feared what you would do if you were disgruntled. When Charles heard that, he said, 'What's so difficult about that? Is my nephew too benevolent to deal with such a minor inconvenience? If you worried that he might incite the crowd, do not give him the chance to speak.'

"And so it goes. As soon as he figured out your intentions, Suffolk laid the plot. Since he arranged the marriage of the king, he has become his favourite courtier, outshining me. I had not the strength to contend with him, and was often away from the court. He concealed it from me, and it was only when everything was ready that I, after a good deal of difficulty, discovered it. It is not coincidence that the Parliament is held at Bury, the ground of Suffolk’s choosing. He wanted to lure you away from London, away from your supporters to dispose of you more conveniently. He also kept telling the king that you’re gathering a host in Wales to strike against him. The king is convinced that you are planning to rebel, which is why he arrested and imprisoned you as soon as you entered the city. They just haven't thought of what to do with you yet."

"Still?" I said gently, " I thought they'd have my confession ready by now, just waiting for me to sign it and have me, say, ‘die of grief’."

"Oh, you mean Thomas of Woodstock? The king hasn’t decided yet, and only intends to send you to the Isle of Man for your wife's company. It's just that..." he laughed bitterly, "you've saved them a lot of trouble, judging by your present condition. Well, we have our quarrels, but I never wanted your death. By the way, your son and servants have also been arrested by the king, and from what I've heard, he's not going to be soft on them, the death warrant has been signed, just waiting for them to be hanged." As he said this, the bald head in my sight began to move up slowly, "Alas, Humphrey, sometimes I find longevity to be a bit nuisance. My father is dead, my three brothers are dead, my four nephews, three are dead and it seems now the fourth is also on the threshold of death. But I, the old thing, still lives, toiling all my life, and yet to be cursed and blamed for every disaster that befalls our house - do you have any confession to make?"

Do I have any confession to make? I thought of the king, of the son I'd lost, of Clarence and Bedford, of Harry and my father, of those women, Jacqueline and Eleanor.

Maybe everything was wrong, I thought. Maybe Harry shouldn't have saved me on the field of Agincourt. Maybe the one who should have died was me. Maybe Harry could have lived, like those astrologers said, to the age of fifty-three and father three sons and three daughters. Maybe Bedford was right, maybe everything really was my fault.

Maybe I should have treasoned against the king anyway.

"Beaufort," I said, "I regret myself."

I heard the sound of the door opened and closed again, and the shining bald head of the cardinal disappeared from my sight.

I tried to reflect upon what Beaufort had said, but it brought me nothing but headache. I tried to think about what the little king would do with me, but it only gave me an even worse headache. I finally gave up my struggle, and lying in my bed, stared at the tapestry on the wall, trying to figure out the embroidery on it.

I thought I must have fallen asleep again without realizing it, for as I blinked my eyes, the scene in front of me changed. Instead of the blurred tapestry, I found myself again in the mist, as if I'd gone back into a dream. I saw the figure in the blue Houppelande standing not far from me. I called out tentatively, and he turned his head towards me. I saw my brother's face, staring at me through the mist. His expression blank, his mouth set, and his eyes filled with despise and coldness.

"Humphrey," He said, "you have failed me."

He turned around, and walked away without looking back, his wide sleeves stirring up the fog, burying his shadow. I tried to run towards him, to catch up with him, but my feet felt like they were pinned to the ground, and I could only watch as he walked away, dissipating into the fog without a trace. I was left alone in the void, in a dreadful silence, with either my brother's voice or even Jacqueline's sob.

* * *

"Did he say nothing else?"

Beaufort nodded, "That was all he said. He took communion and died a few hours later."

Henry turned his back and covered his eyes with his hands. A little while later, they heard the king let out a suppressed sob.

"He was good to me when I was a boy," the King sobbed quietly, "I thought he was...I thought he was really...and then Uncle Bedford showed me that he didn't care about me at all, that he was just trying to use me to benefit himself and those who depend on him, I didn't believe at first. But..." he sobbed even louder, "I didn't want him to die," he cried, "I really didn't think he would die... ..."

Beaufort sighed, feeling old and weary. Perhaps it was time for him to retire, he thought, and disappear from the court while the king still had some affection for him. The king was weak and vulnerable, but his new wife was a formidable character, working in tandem with Suffolk and Ormond and stirring up the already disordered court. The king was such a weakling that all he could do was to cry. He feared that he might accidentally get in the way of the queen and die in his cell, and then the young king would cry and say, "I really didn't want him to die," and the whole thing would be over. He thought, and wondered a little at the folly of the young king. No wonder the Milanese envoy said the king was still a baby.

He heard the door rattle, and then the sound of a robe trailing on the floor. A fair girl rushed forward, took Henry's head in her hands, kissed him on the lips, and drew out a handkerchief to dry his tears.

"Don't cry, Harry," whispered Queen Margaret, stroking the King's back, " _I_ love you."

The King was still sobbing, and Beaufort, averting them, glanced at a corner of the room. The Duke of York standing in the corner of the room, his eyes staring at the King and Queen nestled in each other's arms, his expression incomprehensible in the dim candlelight.

Yes, he remembered. Humphrey was dead, the House of Lancaster was heirless. The next heir-presumptive to the throne would be this Duke of York, who stood in a corner without uttering a word, trying to make himself invisible. He looked at the queen and then at York's focused gaze. The snow had started to fall again, knocking against the glass.

The northern wind started howling.


End file.
